Hello my readers. I want to apologize to all of you for my NOT having last Tuesday's blog story for you before New Years Eve. It wasn’t intentional. But here is this Tuesday’s story with all my heartfelt apologies. As I’m sure you all know, family members are involved in a lot of my stories. Today’s story involves me, my brother and sister: 

The 4th of July Rooftop Pool Fiasco

Back in 1989, I was living in a two‑bedroom apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn with my then husband, Steve, and my first-born child. The kind of place where you could hear your neighbors argue and smell the beauty parlor’s perm solution through the floorboards. My other kids weren’t even a twinkle in my eye yet; they were more like a twinkle in the universe’s “maybe later” folder.

It was the Fourth of July, and my husband at the time was working for his father’s limousine business, chauffeuring people who were probably having a much easier day than I was about to. I invited my brother Tommy and my sister Linda over, hoping someone on the block would light fireworks that night, so we could at least pretend we had plans.

We hung out, played with my son, ate lunch, and enjoyed the afternoon. Then one of us and I won’t name names, but let’s just say beer was absolutely the fourth guest at this gathering — said, “You know what would make this day more fun? A pool.”

Not a real pool. Not even a respectable inflatable pool. Just something to splash around in like overheated toddlers at a daycare sprinkler day.

Tommy knew there was a store a block away that sold baby pools, so off he went. He came back triumphantly holding a plastic pool that was two feet tall and about six feet wide — basically a blue salad bowl for humans.

And that’s when it hit us:

We had no idea where to put it or how to fill it. Not one brain cell in that apartment had considered logistics. We were operating like three contestants on a game show where the prize was heatstroke.

We debated putting it on the sidewalk and asking the beautician downstairs if we could hook a hose to her sink. But she had closed early — probably sensing chaos in the air like a dog sensing a thunderstorm.

So naturally, the next idea was:

“Let’s bring it to the roof.” 

Because nothing says “responsible adults” like hauling a six‑foot round pool up a staircase like we were smuggling a large satellite dish AND pretending it was totally normal. Once we got up there, we noticed my upstairs neighbor had a hibachi grill there. He wasn’t home, but we took that as a sign from the BBQ gods. I had briquettes, lighter fluid, and matches in the apartment because apparently, I was always one minor inconvenience away from starting a cookout — so we decided we’d grill up there too. We hauled up chairs, toys for my son, a cooler, a radio and enough beer to make us believe this was a good idea.

We sat down, cracked one open, and then it hit us:

We still hadn’t filled the pool! Tommy didn’t have a long enough hose. Buckets would take forever. Pots would take even longer. We were brainstorming like three raccoons trying to solve a calculus problem.

Then I remembered:

We had just bought a brand‑new 30‑gallon garbage can that hadn’t even been used yet.

Perfect! We’d fill that and carry it up.

Well, we filled it.

It took ages.

And then, shocker — we couldn’t lift it! Not even a millimeter. Who knew it would be that heavy? Certainly not the three stooges that were drinking beer that day! It was like trying to deadlift a sleeping adult that had too much to drink. So, we regrouped on the roof, opened another beer (because hydration is important), and decided to bail out half the water. That meant more trips, but fewer hernias. We siphoned out half, tried again, and it was still heavy — like carrying an anvil tied to an anvil.

We got Linda, set my son up safely inside, and the three of us lifted that garbage can up the stairs like we were reenacting a low‑budget version of the pyramids being built.

We did this three times.

By the end, the pool was only half full, but honestly? We didn’t care. We were sweaty, exhausted, and slightly buzzed — the holy trinity of rooftop decision‑making while drinking beer.

We splashed around, grilled the food, and when the sun went down, the surrounding blocks lit up fireworks. From the roof, it felt like our own private show.

Was it worth the trouble? Maybe.

But it was me, my brother, my sister, and my son — laughing, sweating, and making memories like a family who had absolutely no business being in charge of anything involving beer, fire, or gravity.

And that’s what made it worth it.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes the best memories come from the dumbest ideas — especially when you’re surrounded by the people who make even the disasters feel like celebrations.

Rooftop Meter Reading

Category Meter Score Notes Planning & Logistics 1.2 / 5 like a GPS that rage‑quit halfway through the route Teamwork 4.9 / 5 like three superheroes whose powers are chaos, beer, and determination Physical Strength 2.3 / 5 like trying to bench‑press a sleeping walrus Creativity Under Pressure 4.7 / 5 like MacGyver but with fewer tools and more alcohol Pool‑Filling Strategy 0.8 / 5 like solving a math problem by setting the paper on fire Fun Factor 5 / 5 like a rooftop block party hosted by three lovable lunatics Memory Value 5 / 5 like a family legend that gets funnier every year